Accepting your fate
by Invoked Ophiuchus
Summary: Gran has an internal debate with himself. This is represented by his class outfits arguing with each other. Unfortunately, the topic of the debate is a challenge that he may very well be unable to overcome...


**What led me to write this? Your guess is as good as mine.**

* * *

This is Gran.

On the surface, he is an average young lad with messy brown hair. Among the skyfarer community, however, he is someone much more.

A beloved and reliable captain of the legendary Grandcypher, whose crew is numbered in the hundreds and is affiliated with dozens of organizations in Phantagrande and Nalhegrande . A man of many talents, including combat, cooking and classical music. A Singularity, an existence without a marked destiny, whose mere presence causes ripples through the fabric of fate.

Though he is hesitant to admit it, Gran is one of the most influential (and thus dangerous) individuals in all of the skydoms.

He also has a fondness for plain, blue hoodies.

They're in his casual outfits, tucked beneath his combat armor and he tries to sneak them underneath his formal wear (much to his good friend Korwa's consternation). It doesn't matter what outfits are presented to him or required in battle, at the end of the day he always falls back on his reliable hoodie and brown pants. Similar sentiments can be found within his co-captain Djeeta, who examines plain pink dresses like how a critic samples fine wine.

Elsewhere in the universe, there exists an instance of Gran with the same blue hoodie. He is seated next to another Gran, who is wearing a suit of battered, weathered armor. Next to that is yet another Gran in simple mage robes.

In fact, in that spacious, oval-sized meeting hall, there are quite a number of Gran(s). All of them were in something of commotion. The kind wherein the participants possess the mental state of a screaming headless chicken suffering the consequences of ingesting high octane psychedelics.

"Order, order! I will have order!" Stationed at a podium raised high, a proud ruler, dressed in dark grey armor with skull-patterned plating, yells at the frantic crowd in front of him. His throat strains at the effort to make his words sound over the hubbub. He smacks his fist against the wood. "Look people, I know we're in a crisis here, but if we want Gran to survive we need to calm down and-"

"He's going to die!" A bard with an oversized, feathered hat and flowing fashionable row screams, falling to his knees.

"Let me out! I want out! I don't wanna be a skyfarer anymore!" A sobbing Enhancer says, as pounds fruitlessly on a set of barred on doors.

"It's the end times! Pray to the skies, for we are without salvation!" proclaims a robed Bishop.

The wily Hermit lost his nerve and cowers in the fetal position, biting his nails and ignoring his unlit lantern. He is joined by the normally charismatic Superstar, who rocks back and forth on the spot and mutters pop song lyrics under his breath with the same, frantic frequency of an asylum patient.

The Chaos Ruler shakes his head, resists the urge to smash it on the podium in front and growls. "All useless!"

He turns to his side and barks, "Give me a status report!"

The target is a sweating Mechanic hunched over a control panel at the side of the hall. Above the panel is a multitude of flickering, white-lit screens displaying various locations the Grandcypher crew visited. The Mechanic bites his lip beneath his rectangular iron mask. His fingers fly over a keyboard. Sparks fly from the screens.

"Heart palpitations have increased by fifty percent. The Tension fissures are starting to crack open. The stomach butterflies protocol-who the heck started that? Oh my skies, this is a mess!"

"Damn it! How did things come to this?" The Chaos Ruler roars, "Doctor! Is there anything we can do to stop this?"

"You've asked me that thrice already!" The Doctor shouts. His attire is the distressed sort of having been woken at two in the night. Scruffy hair, unshaven stubble and coat buttons done up the wrong way. "Why did those protocols have to be activated? They

aren't meant to be used willy-nilly."

He glares at a figure at the back of the room, behind the podium and in front and in front of a large mural displaying the eternal skies.

"Isn't that right, Mr. Eternal?" The Doctor screams.

It is yet another Gran, clad in armor black as the night sky and trimmed with crimson fiery as the spirit of man, surrounded by a shining azure aura. He sits on a golden throne. Resting against the throne are ten ethereal weapons.

This Gran is a Guider to the Eternal Edges of existence. He is man who rises above the ordinary masses, unites both the ambitious and the spurned and guides them all to victory. Taking one's eyes off him is difficult. The entire fabric of space warps around him; a force of attraction greater than any king, closer to a god. In response to the chaos unfolding in front of him, he simply folds his legs, clasps his hands and smiles.

* * *

It's another beautiful day aboard the Grandcypher. The sun is shining, the skies are clear, the supplies are stocked and path ahead is straightforward with nary an adversary in sight. After conducting their business for the day, the two captains happen to run across once another in the mess halls. They share a glance, smiling, before taking a seat on opposite ends of a wooden table, again still smiling in perfect synchronization.

"Hi Gran." Djeeta, the second (but not inferior) captain, greets.

"Hey Djeeta." Gran, the first (but not superior) captain, replies. "Nice weather we're having, huh?"

"That's right! Makes me wish I could soar through the skies like the archangels. Say, how did yesterday's mission with Europa and Alexiel go?"

"That? Yeah, it was easy as shit. That second of group mercenary thugs never stood a chance, even with their fancy new golem tech. We blew through their little machines and captured them all one by one. Alexiel even smiled a little at the end."

"Ooh, really? Has our disciple of earth finally learned to loosen up a little?"

"Unbelievable, right? Must've gotten caught up in the moment, not that's a bit thing. She realized part-way through and turned away because she was embarrassed about it. But Europa was quick-witted enough to spot it. Those two are really getting along well."

"Ha, I knew that defrosting Alexiel wasn't impossible. Wait until Uriel hears about this. He's gonna be stoked!"

"Hey, did you know that Ilsa's birthday is next week? We should go over to the Society and pay her a visit."

"Nice idea, Gran! You know, you should do a mock wedding with her. She'd love it."

"Man, I don't know if she'd kiss or kill me for suggesting that."

This is Jamil.

He was a former member of the Mephorash intelligence agency and is now sworn as the bodyguard of Gran and Djeeta. Wherever either of two captains go, Jamil is always close by. Any threats towards the two are removed with extreme prejudice and very sharp knives.

As he watches his two captains from a distance, he can't help but ponder.

During his assassin training, Jamil learned about psychology. How did targets show their fear? What common mistakes did they make in their panic and how could he best exploit them? What was difference between real and fake emotion? All questions with answers that could mean the difference between success and failure, life and death.

Because of this, he understood how to read people. From their first meeting alone, Jamil understood that Gran and Djeeta carried a level of purity within them, rarely found among most people. It was one of reasons why he joined the crew.

When his two captains strolled through the Grandcypher, exchanging greetings with crew members and performing daily tasks, the rest of the crew thought nothing of it. Jamil knew that they were in distress. Yet, they could not show it, being the rock of which many crew members relied on.

"Master Gran? Mistress Djeeta?" He asks, approaching. The mess hall is devoid of any crew members apart from themselves. "Is something wrong?"

"Why would there be?" Djeeta asks back, smiling.

Gran looks at his fellow captain, his hands, then towards Jamil. "I don't see something wrong with us."

"We've done our missions, our supplies are stocked and the crew members are happy and healthy. There's nothing to worry about!" Djeeta says.

"Mistress…" Jamil repeats.

"You worry too much, Jamil." Gran says, patting the ex-assassin on the back in a friendly manner. "Just relax!"

"Yeah, it's not like we burden ourselves in secret for the sake of the crew and stop them from worrying so much." Djeeta laughs.

"Oh Djeeta, you're so silly." Gran chuckles.

"You're one to talk, Gran!" Djeeta says, punching Gran lightly in his arm.

The two captains share another laugh that doesn't stop for a good minute.

* * *

Medical professionals are typically not known for their fighting prowess. The Doctor wearing Gran's face would disagree, as he slowly stomps up the steps towards the Guider's throne, his moving hands resembling strangulation techniques. The divine aura radiating from the man on the throne doesn't slow down the Doctor one bit.

"I'm meaning to ask this for quite a while now," The Doctor begins, glaring straight into the Guider's eyes. The two are now a head's width apart. "But what the actual hell is wrong with you?"

The Guider tilts his head slightly, but says nothing.

"No, don't pretend as if you don't know! Running headlong into crisis after crisis, tanking hits from enraged primals for, enduring the heat and cold for the sake of trinkets and treasure…do you think this body has no limits?"

The Guider pretends to think, closes his eyes, puts his hand beneath his chin, then nods and smiles.

"You utter buffoon!" The Doctor screams, "Do you think we enjoy this?"

Another gesture of affirmation.

"I've just had enough of your bumf—"

The Guider suddenly snaps his fingers, It is a sharp, briefs sound that somehow rises above the din and quiets it in an instant. All the Gran(s) stop their panicking and look towards the Guider on the throne, even the Mechanic and the Chaos Ruler. The Guider points to the Doctor, who is taken aback. A moment passes.

"Well?" The Doctor demands.

"Well what?" The nervous Hermit asks, raising his hand.

"Do any of you enjoying putting Gran in danger time after time again?" The Doctor asks.

The Chaos Ruler huffs. "Fuck, I wouldn't say we take pleasure in getting him beaten up time after time again-"

"You see that, Eternal-"

"But I have to say, the rewards are worth it." The Chaos Ruler finishes. The Doctor wrenches his gaze towards the ruler, mouth agape and a flicker of betrayal in his eyes. Any argument, silent or not, between the two is cut short as the rest of the Gran(s) speak.

"There is pleasure in hunting down those who would dare to hurt our crew and breaking their disgusting, sneering faces into meat pulp over and over again." snarls the mad-eyed Berserker. His sentiment is shared by a stone-faced Glorybringer and the hooded, dark-faced Assassin.

"If we didn't fight all those primals and warriors, we would not have accumulated so much treasure." says the Weapons Master. Stacked in front of him are papers, each one containing tables upon tables of images of weapons enshrined in gold, supplemented by numbers and calculations incomprehensible to anyone except Gran himself.

"We would not have met any of our crew." The Gran in the default blue hoodie states. "Lyria, Katalina, Rackam, Eugen…"

"All of our friends and comrades." finishes the Superstar.

"And the rivals we faced in battle." The Berserker continues. The image of a knight-clad in black (and an entire storage room's worth of father issues), brandishing their heavy blade at them in the palace of Mephorash, pops into the heads of many.

"And the women." The Superstar adds, grinning to himself. This does not elicit the kind of reaction the Doctor prefers.

"God, I wish Narmaya was here." The Hermit sighed.

"I'm more of a Heles person myself." The Dragoon muttered. "I want to run my hands over her fluffy ears."

"Arlumaya is pretty attractive." The Alchemist rasps. "Wies, too."

"I...I like Percival more than all the other girls." The Sword Master mutters. "...the hell are you lot looking at? Get lost!"

"Okay, excluding Gran's hormonal responses, those are some decent points." The Doctor admits, pinching his forehead. "But my initial argument stands. Pain doesn't magically go away because of the benefits, you know!"

"Doctor, you wouldn't exist if Gran hadn't thrown himself in danger in the first place." The Chaos Ruler points out.

"That's-"

"The liver is revolting!" The Mechanic suddenly yells.

"What." The Chaos Ruler and the Doctor spin around.

"The liver is refusing to filter any more poison for us." The Mechanic gibbers, "It's saying that it's been put through too much abuse and it's going on strike!"

"Damn it!" The Doctor swears beneath his breath, running over to the Mechanic's console. He slams his fist on it, pressing several colourful buttons at once. "Doesn't it know that we needs its services more than anything right now?"

"The white blood cells are also thinking about strike and there's some suspicious rumbling in the internals—"

"I'll take over!" The Doctor grabs a microphone connected to the panels. He then glares back at the Guider on the throne. "Don't think we're done with you yet!"

"Ignore him!" The Chaos Ruler growls. "We're got bigger problems right now! How did this start in the first place?"

No-one knows. Except the Guider, who takes out a remote from his pockets and presses the play button.

* * *

Jamil glances back and forth between his captains. Gran has brought out a plate of crackers and cheese and Djeeta is in the process of pouring lemon-scented tea into some cutlery Baotorda bought at Knickknack.

"Want some, Jamil?" Djeeta asks, holding out a cracker. Jamil hesitates, before taking a seat next to her. Was this a new game the two captains were playing? Ever since both of them boosted the six seraphic weapons to their maximum potential, their behaviors took a turn for the unhinged. Nothing threatening to the crew or its operations, but as if a couple of their mental restraints had crumbled into the wind.

"Thank you, Mistress Djeeta." Jamil says politely. He bites into it. Salty, but refreshing. Nothing toxic or unusual (or resembling a prank) about it as far as he could tell. Perhaps he's being a bit too paranoid? The two captains might've overdosed on coffee or whatnot. Ever since Sandalphon came on board, the Grandcypher pantry never ran out of the stuff.

"How have you been recently, Jamil?" Djeeta asks.

"Well. Despite the additional work, helping out in Raduga has done good things for my mental state. I'm feeling less weary than before. My sleep patterns have improved as well."

"That's good." Gran smiles. "Learn anything new lately?"

"Ladiva taught me and Phoebe how to create her special pancakes with blueberry jam and a golden syrup." Jamil says. "Her original creation—I intend to help her and Lowain make a buffet breakfast with them for the crew one day."

"Oh man, that sounds delicious." Djeeta says, a trace of drool lurking at the corner of her mouth. Along with it was…Jamil blinks. Did she looked a little pained for a moment?

"Hey Jamil, make sure you're getting enough rest. Don't stay up too late. We'd never forgive ourselves if you keeled over one day."

"I will, Mistress Djeeta."

The three share more conversation, enjoying the warmth of the mess hall and the peacefulness of an ordinary day, and Jamil can feel the tension within him lessening a little. Perhaps there really is nothing to worry about.

"Hey Gran, what should we do now? We've recruited all the Eternals, collected all the Seraphic Weapons and beat up all the Arcarum primals. What's next for us?"

"Go after Loki and his crew?" Gran suggests.

"Ehhh? But that's boring." Djeeta half-whines, tapping the table playfully and kicking her legs, "We'll end up siccing everyone on him and it'll end in a flash."

Jamil remembers Loki. An dark-skinned Astral from the old world, commanding the primal beast Fenrir. Calling his attitude towards the captains arrogant is a huge understatement. It never made much sense to the rest of the crew, considering the sheer number of primals and powerful individuals Gran and Djeeta had recruited, along with their numerous accomplishments.

Jamil suddenly has the image of the ten Eternals and the ten rogues from Sephira Island jumping on top of Loki and Fenrir and beating them both up in a cloud of dust and smoke. Gran apparently has the same idea, because he sniggers loudly and audibly.

"Guess it's time to finally stop sitting on our asses and head for the end of the sky." Gran says, "I wanna meet our old man already."

"Knowing us, we'll end up getting sidetracked and save another organization or kingdom." Djeeta mumbles, her head now resting lazily on the table, positioned beneath a ray of sunlight flowing in from an open window.

"Our life is weird."

"Amen to that, Gran. I know! Maybe we can put the Evokers into therapy! We can get Lobelia aroused to things other than constant destruction!"

"Ha ha ha, let's not go that far."

Jamil is just about to relax more—as much as trained assassins can relax, anyway—and further chime in the conversation when he hears a muffled crash from behind the galley door. It is followed by a loud metallic clang and several wet squishes.

"Awawawawawa!"

"Hey, be careful, already!"

"Sorry Vania...my hand slipped. This pot is so slimy."

"Lyria, that was my special brew you dropped. Now I gotta make it all over again."

"Hauu…"

"Now now, you two. Let's focus on the task at hand. We can clean up the kitchen once we're done."

Voices float from the door. Familiar ones. Something hard and foul sinks in Jamil's stomach. He wrenches his gaze to his captains. They are still engaged in their conversation. "Master Gran? Mistress Djeeta?"

"Yes, Jamil?" They answer.

"I heard a commotion from the galley." Jamil says.

Gran and Djeeta glance at each other.

"I didn't hear anything." Gran replies.

"Nope, neither did I." Djeeta affirms.

"But…"

"You should relax, Jamil." Gran says, patting Jamil on the shoulder again. More forcefully than usual. "It's not good to get worked up over non-existence things things."

Nodding like an automated puppet, Djeeta takes the lid off the teapot, pours herself a new cup and then sprinkles a serving of white powder into it.

"Mistress Djeeta." Jamil says, "That's salt."

Djeeta licks some of the white powder on her fingers. "Huh, you're right." She shrugs and proceeds to tip the entirely of the contents of her teacup into her mouth, ignoring the scalding on her tongue.

Smoke wafts from beneath the galley door. Djeeta scowls at it, gets up to open a window and sits back down, humming a cheerful tune. Only years of arduous training keep Jamil from grabbing Gran by the scruff of the neck and tearfully asking what was wrong with him (like a certain violet-haired, butterfly-themed, sword-wielding draph would have).

* * *

"_Then, it's a promise, bloodkin!"_

"_Yeah, a promise, Vania. I hear you."_

"_Okay! Just sit back, bloodkin. I'm gonna whip up something awesome and then you'll realize just how great vampire cuisine is!"_

"_My stomach is already rumbling." (I drank all that soup of hers before and it didn't leave any side effects past the first few days, so I should be fine. I've developed a resistance to poison throughout my adventure.)_

"_Also, also, get this! Katalina said she wants to help me!"_

"_W-what? Katalina said that?"_

"_Yeah! It's kinda weird how you guys don't let her cook often…"_

"_Oh, so you do know—"_

"_But it must be because she's so good that you guys save her for special occasions. Like those fancy bigwig parties Feldrac used to drag me and Veight to."_

"_Vania, that's not why we let Katalina cook."_

"_Hm? Then what is it?"_

"_It's because…how do I put this…__the rest of the crew and I__ appreciate her efforts but sometimes-"_

"_Ah, say no more, bloodkin! I know you're in on the surprise."_

"_Surpri__se? No, this isn't right! __Vania, listen to me!"_

"_Don't worry, you can count on me. I'm gonna take this chance to make proper friends with Katalina! She's cool, almost as you and Djeeta. Ooh, I'll get Lyria to help as well."_

"_..."_

"_Hey bloodkin, your face looks funny. Are you alright?"_

"_Well…"_

"_Ah, I get it! You're so excited you can't sit still! Don't worry, just sit tight and wait, we'll whip something great!"_

…

"_Djeeta?"_

"_Yes, Gran? Why do you look so hurried?"_

"_I think I just fucked up."_

Silence descends upon the grand hall of Gran(s) as the recording finishes. The Mechanic presses the pause button with a trembling finger, swallows and waits for the fireworks to resume.

"God damn it." The Chaos Ruler moans, pressing his palm against his face.

"Why. Just, why?" The Sword Master groans.

"If you need me, I'm going to be crying over in the corner there." The Chrysaor says, standing up and leaving his seat.

"What the everloving hell," Doctor Gran seethes as he stomped towards the Eternal's throne once more, "Were you thinking?"

No response.

"You had one job: saying no. Just tell no to Vania and explain why. Sure, she might be upset with you, but she'd get over it soon."

The Guider looks away. The gesture of a ruler bored with the irritant chittering of the peasants.

"Do you think this is a big joke! Making this body suffer? Do you even care about Gran at all?"

Now this catches the Guider's attention. His head snaps right and all traces of brevity from his expression vanish. For a moment, the Doctoris entrapped within the glare of the divine. A sense of insignificance and futility binds him. He's an ant beneath a magnifying glass. He's a single pocket of air within the vast skies. He should get on his knees and prostrate himself until his throat runs dry and his bones crumble to dust. Complete and utter futility and reverence in front of this magnificent being.

Then, it ends. The Doctor realizes he is trembling. Seemingly bored, the Guider snaps his fingers. The transmissions from the screen shift.

"_Hello, Vania."_

_"Hi Djeeta! What's up?"_

_"I was talking to Gran and heard about the cooking you were doing for us."_

"_Ah, that! Yeah, it's going to be great!"_

"_About that…"_

"_You're excited about that, too? Wow, I really gotta try hard then!"_

_"Vania, please listen to me! Hey-"_

_"Sorry, gotta go, I'm going shopping with Lyria and Katalina. See you later, bloodkin!"_

_"..."_

_"How did it go, Djeeta?"_

_"Same as you. I wanted to grab her and stop her from leaving, but I simply couldn't!"_

_"We're doomed, are we?"_

_"Truly."_

Then, the following:

"_Hey, Bloodkin. Can you give me a piggyback ride? Pleeease?"_

"_Heeheehee! Wasn't it delicious, Bloodkin?__"_

"_Happy birthday, Bloodkin! I've a surprise present for you! This year, it's going to be... Me!"_

"Oi," The Chaos Ruler snarls. "Isn't this cheating?"

More voices flow out of the screens. Not just of Vania, but of two others who started the journey in the first place.

"_You should've seen it, Katalina! These heroes saved me. It was so...um, heroic!__"_

"_Happy New Year Gran. __Just thinking about another new year with you makes me excited!__"_

"_Nom nom nom...this is great! Do you want some of this pizza, Gran?"_

"_I've met so many people on this journey. Nice people, scary people, all of the members of our crew...and you, Gran. I'm so glad I got to know you."_

"_I did it! I was finally able to help you and Djeeta! I'm so happy I can fight alongside you both…"_

"_Ah, yes, how rude of me. My name is Katalina Aryze. I can't thank you enough for saving Lyria.__"_

"_You seem like a reliable young man. Why not be the captain with your friend?"_

"_You've been working hard lately. Make sure to get enough rest, captain."_

"_Are you alright? No, these wounds are nothing. I'm more worried about you! __Geez, you and Djeeta act so recklessly….__"_

"_If Lyria and I hadn't met you and Djeeta, I don't know what would__ have __become of us. Because of your continuous efforts, we__'ve been able to continue this journey together.__ Happy __Birthday, and t__hank you for being at our side, Gran."_

A heavy, haunting silence spreads throughout the room. Many of the Gran(s) are twiddling their thumbs, staring at the ground, acting uncomfortable in general. The Gran in the Fighter outfit rubs a tear from his eye. The Doctor opens his mouth several times to speak, could not find the words and settles for sighing deeply and loudly.

"That was dirty." He says, weary.

The Guider shrugs.

"You had to remind us of their smiles. Their joy when we talk, laugh and enjoy life with them. Their generosity, their loyalty, their pure-hearted love for Gran." The Doctor continues. "Damn it all. Damn it all."

A hand rests on his head. The Guider stepped off his throne. The Doctor returns the look and sees nothing but calm resignation in those brilliant, blue eyes.

"I see." The Doctor whispers. "You had accepted it long ago."

The Guider nods. The Chaos Ruler scoffs. "Could've told us from the start." And yet his words lack their usual bite.

The Doctor shakes. "Even so, I can't accept this. I can't accept this abuse wrought upon Gran's body. He's going to die young at this rate! Why does our honor have to take precedence over his health?"

His words turn to sobs. The Guider merely watches, impassive. The other Gran(s) are at a loss what to do. Their fate was approaching with all the subtleness of a steam train collision. Comforting the Doctor would be a futile effort.

The Chaos Ruler shakes his head and faces the audience.

"Guess there's no point in continuing this. Everyone, batter down the matches and prepare for the worst. It's time to—"

The doors to the room suddenly slam open. A woman carrying the face of Djeeta storms in. Dressed in a low-cut black dress, her mouth is contorted into a permanent, sneering rictus. A silver crown with a spike sharp as the appendages of an iron maiden rests above her pure white hair. Blood-red threads matching her eyes trail out of her back and shoulders, controlled by a shadowy, malevolent puppeteer. Despite her intimidating appearance, the Doctor runs over and almost collapses to the ground in front of her.

"Please, tell me Djeeta has managed to convince Gran." The Doctor begs, " Tell me there is still salvation for all of us!"

The accursed Djeeta shakes her head. Her constant malevolent grin seemingly mocks the Doctor's plight. He falls, the last strands of hope cut in an instant.

"Welp, we're fucked!" The Sword Master says, slumping in his seat.

Suddenly, the ground rumbles. Pillars shake and plaster falls from the ceiling. The word 'DANGER' in blood-red font flashes loud within every single one of the Mechanic's screens.

The Chaos Ruler's brief words are forgotten and screaming starts up again. Several Gran(s) attempt to break down the doors, only to be stopped by the black-clad Djeeta. Misery is best shared with company, after all. Others simply hide their head in their hands and pray for a merciful end.

A Gran with a black hoodie and similar red strings to the black-clad Djeeta slinks out of the shadows behind the Guider's throne. The two exchange brief nods and the black hoodied Gran takes out a bottle of liqour. Auguste wine, the very best—or rather what Gran imagines it to be.

Two glasses are poured. The Guider and the Alter Ego Conjurer toast one another and take deep gulps as fissures grow and shatter the marbled floor.

Once more into the breach they go...

* * *

Jamil has had enough. He is going to assault the galley door. This is a sentence that would have borders on insanity for most residents of the sky. Yet, it is merely just another occurrence aboard the legendary Grandcypher.

He draws his knives is fully prepared to slice wood when the door opens and Katalina steps out. Following her is Vania and Lyria. While bearing triumphant expressions, the three of them are covered in dust, soot and assorted scraps of foodstuffs and look in dire need of a shower.

"It's done!" Katalina announces, flush with success.

"I can't wait." Gran says, sounding as if he was already a foot in his grave.

Lyria carries forward a metallic tray containing two goblets and places it on the table. Internal warning bells shriek as a pungent stench not unlike decaying meat assaults Jamil's nose. The steam rising from the goblets is too thick and colorful to be anything natural.

Jamil takes a look inside the goblets and...he can't see. No, not because it is too dark, but simply because his brain refuses to comprehend what was inside. There's ice in boiling liquid, wriggling little mushes, vegetables that are more meat than plant and oh dear god his brain refuses to go on. Death herself would've fled from the contents.

"It looks...interesting." Djeeta comments.

"Yeah." Gran says, "What flavor is this drink?"

"It's a genuine vampire special surprise!" Vania chirps.

"And the flavor…?" Gran presses.

"It's a surprise, duh!" Vania repeats. "I can't tell you. You have to try it for yourself, bloodkin!"

"Are you quite sure this is safe for consumption?" Jamil questions.

"Of course it is!" Vania replies, now a little irritated.

"And that is because…"

"Because my bloodkin drank all of my soup last time, that's why!" She pouts. "Geez, what's with all the questions, Jamil?"

Her confidence does little to improve Jamil's confidence. One thing is for sure: the goblets need to vacated. Immediately.

He eyes the window Djeeta had opened. Grab the offending items, take two steps and hurl them out. Burn mana from his soul if necessary. The goblets might become a contamination hazard for some poor island (Macula Marius would never forgive him), but it's a risk he is willing to take.

"Hey! I can see you, Jamil!" Vania cries, pointing in his direction. "You better not be trying anything funny. Put your hands where I can see them!"

* * *

**SELECT YOUR OPTIONS**

1\. Do it

2\. Relent.

* * *

**Do it.**

In one universe, Jamil acts. It doesn't matter if Vania, Katalina, Lyria or even his two captains will be angry at him. His purpose is to ensure the safety of Gran and Djeeta and if that means disposing of the eldritch concoction in front of him, no matter how much misguided love was put into it, then so be it.

Before anybody else can act, he grabs the two goblets. Something from within them tries to resist his efforts. It is an invisible force akin to two poles of a magnet repel each other. But it is no match for the duty bound fervor Jamil carries like a nation's flag on his back, and so he hoists the goblets up in the air, runs towards the open window and throws them out into the wide blue skies.

"Hey!" Vania cries.

"Our food!" Lyria shrieks.

"Jamil!" Katalina shouts, face twisted into a grimace. "What was that for?"

Jamil turns to face her, determination burning like wildfire in his eyes. "I have no regrets." he says.

"What do you mean, you have no regrets?" Vania repeats, hands clenching into tiny fists, fangs bared. "We spent a lot of work on those drinks!"

"They would have severely hurt Master Gran and Mistress Djeeta."

"How would you know? They didn't even get a chance to try them!" Vania shrieks.

"Be silent, girl! Your foul concoction would've rent their internal organs asunder, to say nothing of the damage to their mental states." Jamil retorts. The sheer force behind his words silences Vania immediately, to which the assassin takes a small amount of undisplayed pleasure from. "I only did what was necessary their bodyguard. Despise me if you wish."

The three girls are unsure what to do for a moment.

"Well," Katalina states, acid dripping from every word, "Since the fruits of our labor have been tossed into the wind, I suppose we better go and wash up. Come on, Vania, Lyria."

Dejected, the two young girls trail after Katalina (Vania sticking her tongue out at Jamil) and head for the baths. Jamil watches them go, face impassive.

"Those three will be angry with you." Djeeta says. Her voice is soft and steady. Jamil knows. He is aware that over the next few days, Lyria will flinch in his presence, Katalina will regard him with disdain and Vania will refuse to speak with him at all.

This is fine, he thinks. Their revulsion is a burden he will welcome with open hands. For it is the duty of the assassin to lurk in the darkness and commit what the light dares not.

"Even if you made Lyria upset, even so…"

He feels two warm bodies pressing upon him.

"Thank you, Jamil." Gran whispers.

"By the skies, thank you so much." Djeeta continues. Both look a hundred years younger.

Jamil gently returns the embrace. His life was (still is) hard and gruelling, and the flames of vengeance have yet to smoulder within him, but its moments like these that make living worth it.

(And if he listens closely, he can hear the faint sound of dozens of versions of his captains cheering and crying with joy, as if a dreadful fate was dangled in front of their eyes, then yanked away at the last second).

* * *

Elsewhere, on a certain island, the inheritor of a rich fortune gazes in horror at the sight before him. The gold pieces, valuable art pieces, jewels and other priceless treasures his father had left him in his will…all dissolving to goo before his eyes. A foul stench rises from the pile.

He collapses to his knees. Tears trickle messily from bloodshot eyes. He looks up and sees a gargantuan ship sailing into the distance. Immediately, he puts two and two together.

"Curse you skyfarers!" He screams to the wide skies, "I swear upon my father's name, I shall never forgive your ilk!"

A seed of vengeance is planted. The darkness lurking within the collective of humanity anticipates its fruition.

…but that is a story for another time.

* * *

**Relent.**

In another universe, Jamil hesitates at the sight of Vania, Katalina and Lyria. While Gran and Djeeta are his first priority, the three girls are still part of the crew. This momentary lapse in judgement is what allows Vania to act first.

"No touching!" She snaps, dragging the goblets away. Whatever foulness lurks within them, she is unaffected.

"Eh?" Lyria gasps, confused.

"He's gonna try and do something like throw the cups out the window." Vania says, leering at the former assassin, "Because he hates vampire food or something."

"Is this true, Jamil?" Katalina says, surprised.

"I admit, have not tried any Medvecian cuisine." Jamil says, "But I have to protest Master Gran and Mistress Djeeta drinking that!"

"What!" Vania cries. "How come?"

"Can't you see what's wrong with it?" Jamil exclaims, gesturing to the unholy abomination of a drink. "There is smoke rising out the top of it! The contents are an abomination."

"I admit, that is a little unusual." Katalina admits, "But that is no reason to throw away perfectly good food."

"Yeah! So keep your hands to yourself!" Vania cries.

Vania and Katalina move to position themselves between him and the goblets. The only sign of Jamil's discomfort is the tightening of his mouth. He's fast on his feet and his assassinations techniques are second to none among the crew, but to take on the prodigal vampire princess and the former legend of the Erste knights at the same time, with the possibility of Lyria's support?

Still, for his captains, he will do anything. He doesn't know why Vania is so adamant in defending the concoction-pride-different tastes to humans or even stupidity-but he needs to try.

"Lyria." He says, facing her, "You are well aware of the dangers of Katalina's cooking, yes? You should know more than anyone else."

He sees Lyria hesitate and chew on her lip in thought. Lyria's appetite was comparable to a force of nature on the worst (best?) of days, but it was not the immovable object needed to conquer the unstoppable terribleness of Katalina's cooking.

"Well, usually Katalina's cooking has some...extreme tastes. And our drinks do smell and look kinda funny." Lyria replies, not immediately. For a moment, a ray of hope shines upon Jamil.

"But Katalina said she was practising really hard in her spare time, so I choose to believe in her!"

And just like that, said hope is smashed into a million pieces beneath Lyria's innocent smile and sunny optimism.

"Aw, thank you, Lyria!" Katalina smiles. "If I wasn't so dirty I'd give you a big hug."

Frustration, an enemy of all assassins, rises insides Jamil. He clenches his teeth willing the last traces of stability inside him.

"Then, I will taste those goblets for any poison!" Jamil announces.

"Why would we put poison in those?" Katalina asks, sounding a little horrified.

"You just want the drinks for yourself!" Vania accuses.

"Food tasting is one of my essential duties!" Jamil responds.

"You haven't done that in ages!" Vania shouts. "Besides, you weren't there when I made that delicious soup for them! My bloodkin know my cooking is fine, so just bug off, you big dummy bodyguard!"

Ah, yes, the soup. The one that gave Gran and Djeeta conniptions for at least two whole days. The two captains, bless their brave souls, refused to show a hint of their weakness to the crew, save for repeated trips to the bathroom.

Jamil wants to scream. Fine, if they won't listen, he'll have to do it himself. Screw the damage to his own bodies, he's getting rid of those goblets even if he has to down their contents himself. His decision is not unnoticed. Tiny bats flow out of Vania's dress and she snarls, fangs ready. Jamil storms forward, blood-tinged magic gathers in Vania's palms as a confrontation grows imminent-

Chairs screech across the hard wooden floor. Gran and Djeeta stand up. They close the distance from Jamil in an instant and pull him back.

"Jamil, stand down." Gran says, firm and strong. "It's fine."

"You've done enough. We really appreciate it." Djeeta adds, giving the dark-skinned assassin a gentle smile, like a mother reminding her frightened child that the medicine won't hurt. "But it's all fine now."

"Master Gran! Mistress Djeeta!" Jamil protests in horror, "You can't surely mean—"

"We promised Vania and Lyria." Gran states. "A captain must not go back on their words."

"For the sake of our crew, we will endure." Djeeta adds. "That includes you."

"It doesn't have to be like this!" Jamil pleads. "There must be some way-"

"You and I both know that is impossible." Gran murmurs. He sighs. "I don't want to have to do this, Jamil Captain's orders: sit down."

"But…"

"You heard him, Jamil." Djeeta intones, "Captain's orders."

Gran and Djeeta coax Jamil into a seat, before stepping forward to face the music.

As he sits there, paralyzed and watching his two beloved captains meet their fate, Jamil wants to scream. He wants to smash his fist against the wood, throw a tantrum, rip the despicable weakness out from his heart and set it aflame. All his training, efforts and suffering…what was it worth, if he couldn't save them? How could he be so pathetic?

He senses two presences behind him. It's Vira and Lowain. Two respectable and dutiful members of the crew that happened get along like a house on fire, yet in this moment both stand together. They pat Jamil on the pack, their expressions that of pained understanding.

Jamil could not call them friends—mere acquaintances at best—but in that moment, he feels a powerful solidarity between them three.

The two captains eye the goblets. It's too late now. They look up and into the weary, but excited, expecting looks of Lyria, Katalina and Vania.

Any restraint the two captains possessed crumbled away long ago.

It's quite ironic, Djeeta thinks. She and Gran were tied spiritually with Lyria. In a sense, Lyria was their weakness-a trait most of their enemies did not know, yet kept searching for. But this weakness was not just physical.

The azure-haired maiden's cuteness was enough to give them pause, but when combined with the heartiness of their longtime friend Katalina, along with the cheerful demeanor of the capricious yet innocent vampire princess Vania…

…well, what were they supposed to do?

"Bottoms up!" The two captains cried, ignoring their chorus of personal internal screaming, and lifted their goblets to their lips.

There was lots of shitting and pissing within the Grandcypher's lavatory that night.

* * *

**(I had an image of all of Gran's class outfits talking to each other and then I came up with the last link and then this happened. If this doesn't make much sense I don't blame you.)**

**(I think I will write something more serious and in-character next time.)**


End file.
